


Misery Loves Company

by notinmyvocab



Series: Misery [4]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/F, Mystery, devil's night, hints of romance, our girl is back at it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notinmyvocab/pseuds/notinmyvocab
Summary: Isabel Noble left the Hotel Cortez with no intention of ever returning. One year later, she receives an unexpected invitation.





	1. Chapter 1

7 Days

The house stood in silence. No creaking doors or groaning floorboards; the Murder House was asleep, as was the owner. With a schedule filled with late nights and early mornings, one free day let Isabel crash. Even the smell of coffee and the knocking on her bedroom door didn't wake up.

Her maid and friend, Moira, quietly opened the door and saw Isabel buried underneath a mountain of blankets. She sighed, setting the mug of freshly made coffee on the nightstand and nudging the lump underneath the blankets.

"Come on now, Izzy. It's well past noon."

Immediately, a young woman bolted upright with her hair a wild mess and smudges of yesterday's mascara making her dark circles even darker. "Fuck, I'm up!"

Moira chuckled, shaking her head. "Relax, it's a free day. No appointments, no visits scheduled."

Isabel relaxed, laying back against her pillows. "Perfect. No need to be productive then." She grabbed the coffee mug from the nightstand and sipped greedily, letting the drink burn her tongue.

"Well, maybe you should be a little productive. At least enough to read this." Moira produced a letter from the pocket of her apron and held it out to Isabel. "It's heavy; made of parchment. From―"

"The Hotel Cortez," Isabel interrupted, seeing the return address. The initials in the wax sealed said "JPM." Pretending not to be interested, Isabel set the letter aside, returning her attention to her coffee.

Moira raised her eyebrows at this strange behavior. "You're not going to even open it?"

"Nope," Isabel answered, taking another sip of coffee.

Sensing that she ought to drop the subject, Moira let it go. "Would you like some lunch since you slept right through breakfast?"

Isabel shook her head. "I'm set with the coffee; I'll just wait 'til dinner."

Knowing full well that Isabel would be complaining of hunger in just an hour or so, Moira said, "I'll go prepare a snack." She gave Isabel a warm smile, which Isabel returned, and then left the room.

With a huff, Isabel let the smile fall of her face. It was replaced by a discontented look as she turned her gaze back to the envelope. She knew exactly what it was, and because of that she considered throwing it into the fireplace. The only reason she didn't tear it up as soon as Moira handed it to her was because she knew that there might be consequences.

Not many people refused James Patrick March and got away with it.

6 Days

Isabel stared blankly at her computer screen, the blinking cursor mocking her. It had been a few months since the release of her first book, and she was feeling the pressure of coming up with new content pronto. How could she be expected to write something completely new when her last work had been so exhausting?

Her first book hadn't even been her idea! It was just her father's idea, one that he never got to because of his untimely death a year ago. She had completed his unfinished work. Now she was completely on her own, and Isabel couldn't focus on her inability to ever compare to Derek Noble, one of the greatest writers of his time. Derek was a household name while Isabel was barely remembered. Her book

( _his book_ )

about the Hotel Cortez had been a hit, but Isabel had a feeling that it never even would have made it to the shelves if Derek's name hadn't been on the cover as well.

Maybe it was this house. It was bogging down her brain. This was the house her father wanted to write about and fought so hard to buy. The other family who wanted to buy the place, the Harmons, had seemed pretty dead set on it was well because of how cheap it was. But Derek had wanted the history that was soaked into the polished wood.

This place was filled with the very essence of Derek. The only thing it was lacking was his ghost. It was sad, and stressful. Isabel was not her father, and she was painfully reminded of that every time she sat down to work on a new manuscript. She was not a literary genius, not like he was. She could embellish on ideas, but Derek had been selfish with creativity.

"Writer's block?"

Isabel looked up to see Tate leaning against the door jamb. His head was cocked to the side and his eyes were wide; Isabel was reminded of a puppy. Only puppies weren't murderers. Not that Isabel knew of, anyway. Perhaps that ought to be her next story?

With a heavy sigh, she leaned back in her chair. "Maybe I should quit this writing gig."

Tate scoffed, "Oh yeah? And what would you do instead?"

"Dunno… become a guide on the Eternal Darkness tour?"

They stared at each other for a beat of silence, and then both burst out laughing, knowing full well that Isabel could never do such a thing. She'd be absolutely miserable if she did that.

"Okay, I appreciate the company and all but I really need to focus on procrastinating."

"But I brought something to help you with that." With a mischievous grin, Tate held up a thick envelope made of parchment with a wax seal keeping it shut.

Isabel snatched the envelope from him so quickly that Tate almost didn't realize it happened. "Why the fuck did you go through my things? We agreed you wouldn't do that," Isabel snapped at him, shoving the envelope in the top drawer of the desk.

"I didn't go through your things," Tate insisted, unable to understand why she was suddenly pissed off. "It was just lying there on your nightstand. It looked important so I just picked it up."

Isabel closed her eyes and took a deep breath as her body tensed with irritation. "Get out," she muttered, rubbing her hands over her face and smudging her mascara.

Tate pouted, upset by the order and confused. What did he do wrong? It wasn't like he read the letter! He walked out of the room, swearing under his breath.

5 Days

Defeat weighing down her shoulders, Isabel made her way downstairs. Exhaustion had arrived with all of its luggage, storing the bags under Isabel's eyes. She had some twisted hopeful thought that exhaustion would inspire her. So far, she was wrong.

As she neared the kitchen, she could smell coffee mixed with cigarettes. She stopped in the doorway, knowing exactly who was in there without needing to look. "I thought we broke the habit of you just wandering in."

"It isn't wandering if you have intention, honey," Constance drawled, her words lingering with her cigarette smoke.

She was seated at the kitchen island with her back to Isabel, a stick of cancer held between two fingers. Without even looking at her daughter, Constance nudged a mug of coffee towards the edge of the counter. "Your drug of choice."

"Coffee won't give me lung cancer," Isabel said, staring at the cigarette.

Constance smirked, then held out the cigarette to Isabel. A second passed where nothing happened, and then Isabel took the offering.

She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs and the nicotine fill her head. "Thanks," she muttered, handing the death stick back to Constance. As she did, she noticed the envelope with a wax seal marked with the initials J.P.M.

Isabel shut her eyes, exhaling heavily. She didn't question how Constance got ahold of the letter; she knew her mother had her ways.

"I'm not going," Isabel stated, picking the mug of coffee up.

"I don't think you have a choice." There was a long pause as Constance waited for the rebuttal, but it didn't come. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It isn't something to brag about." Isabel spoke softly, her words getting caught in her throat. She gulped the coffee greedily in hopes that her guilt and frustration would wash down with it. No such luck. "I don't want to go…"

Constance scoffed at the declaration. Isabel saying she didn't want to go wasn't going to change anything. "And why's that? Because you can't admit to what you've done?"

Isabel glared at Constance, but she didn't argue because she knew Constance was right. Constance knew Constance was right, which was the most frustrating part. Isabel brought the coffee mug to her lips again, only to discover she had finished the drink off already.

Constance took the empty mug from Isabel. "Sit down," she instructed as she stood up. "I'll make you hot coco."

"I don't need coco," Isabel insisted, though she did as she was told and sat down at the kitchen island.

"Now I know I did not raise you, but you are still my daughter and I know when you need hot coco. So hush up; I will not hear anymore arguing."

4 Days

Her eyes and legs were sore, her back needed to be cracked, and her coffee had gone cold an hour ago.

She had been working all morning and afternoon, going through phases of writing paragraphs at a time, and then staring blankly at the computer screen. The result was five pages of content. It wasn't much, but it was the most she had come up with in months.

Chewing her lower lip, Isabel skimmed through what she wrote. She then highlighted everything and hit the "backspace" key.

Isabel stood up and stretched, the ache that settled into her muscles slowly ebbing away. She grabbed her mug and left the study.

The house was quiet, which was both very odd and a relief. Ever since the letter showed up, company was scarce.

The letter was on the fridge, held up by a magnet and still unopened. She dumped out her coffee in the sink, never breaking eye contact with the envelope as it stared her down, waiting for her. Well, she wasn't going to give in. The letter was just going to have to keep waiting.

3 Days

"Part of you must be a little curious as to what's inside," said Moira as she handed Isabel a stack of folded sweaters, freshly washed and dried.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you haven't thrown it out yet."

2 Days

Isabel stared at the envelope, swirling the wine she held. She tilted her head back and downed the wine.

Licking her lips, Isabel took the envelope off the fridge and opened it.

1 Day

"I'm going."


	2. Chapter 2

Devil's Night

If she wasn't back by three in the morning, Moira was going to phone the police. That was the deal. Even if Isabel called and said she would be late, Moira was supposed to get the cops involved. Isabel tried downplaying Moira's concern, but in her heart she was grateful for the worry.

The neon glow of the Hotel Cortez sign cast a devilish red glow.

How fitting.

She was hesitant to enter. If she stayed outside, she could turn around and go home. Walking inside meant sealing her fate. The last time she came to the hotel― something she had done in another lifetime― the events that transpired scarred her soul. Now here she was: risking that all again.

Isabel walked inside.

The lobby stood as it always had: tall and unwavering. It could make even a giant feel no bigger than a grain of sand.

There was no one in sight, but Isabel knew that was the secret of the Cortez. No one was ever in sight, but no one was ever alone.

She walked up to the front desk and stared at the bell. Maybe if she didn't ring it, she could just leave? It was a lovely thought, but as soon as it crossed her mind, Isabel knew it was a fool's dream. Even if she didn't sign in, the hotel knew she was here. There would be no peaceful exit if she tried to leave now. Resigned, Isabel raised her hand and her palm struck the bell.

The ring was sharp and resonated throughout the entire hotel.

Iris emerged from the backroom, her look of shock exaggerated by her thick glasses when Isabel held up the invitation. "You're dead?"

Isabel couldn't help but laugh. "You wish. No, I'm very much alive."

"Haven't heard much you lately. One book and you vanish."

"Sorry I'm not Stephen King. Not all of us can spit out a best seller every few days."

Iris handed Isabel a pen, and Isabel signed the thick book filled with so many names. Some alive, most dead.

"The police are going to show up if I'm not out of these doors by three."

"Noted. Do you know where you're going?"

"Unfortunately," Isabel said as she turned around and headed up the staircase. There was still time, and she was going to need something to help her get through the night.

If Liz Taylor was as surprised to see her as Iris was, it certainly wasn't as obvious.

"Miss us too much?" Liz taunted. She looked at the invitation in Isabel's hand. "Well, aren't you little Miss Popular? Need a bit of liquid courage before your grand entrance?"

"Some vodka would be nice."

"Oh honey, no. You're in a dress and you're wearing contact lenses; you need a drink with class." Liz filled a rocks glass with ice and poured amber liquid over the cubes. "Our finest bourbon, on the house."

"Cheers." Isabel took the glass and tilted her head back. The bourbon was smooth and gave her insides a warm hug.

"Best bourbon on the house, even I don't get that," Sally drawled as she sat on the barstool beside Isabel. "Some special girl you are."

Isabel desperately wished she wasn't. Being special didn't mean anything good. It meant living in her father's shadow. It meant being a witch with no use for her powers. It meant getting an invitation to Devil's Night. Bourbon was the only upside to being special.

"Hi Sally," Isabel said, noticing that Sally wouldn't even look at her. "I told you I'd be back."

"Because of him, not because of me." Sally took a long drag from her cigarette, the smoke smooth and soothing.

Well, she wasn't wrong.

Isabel sighed heavily. She wasn't going to have a conversation that was going nowhere. Besides, she had a party to get to. She finished off the bourbon and stood up, still feeling uneasy and unnerved.

She didn't come back for Sally, that was true and Isabel couldn't lie about that. If it wasn't for the invitation, she wouldn't be here at all. This hotel was Hell on Earth, and she would know; she had been to Hell.

Despite her hatred towards the fact that she was back here, Isabel silently hoped Sally would stop her, take her hand; something.

It was fucked up that she wanted Sally's attention. Sally was a murderer.

But Isabel was no better.

As Isabel walked away, Sally looked to her. Tears that never seemed to go away made her eyes glisten like a stream on a sunny day.

"They're going to eat her alive," Sally muttered, the cigarette clenched between her teeth.

And perhaps they would. But Isabel wasn't thinking about that as she stood in front of Room 78.

Should she knock? Announce herself? What exactly was the polite way to go about this?

She shouldn't think too much about this. For once she just wasn't going to think. So, without thinking she opened the door.

Music from a phonograph that probably would have been a big hit in the twenties greeted Isabel. It brought a sense of comfort that disappeared as soon as Isabel locked eyes with James Patrick March.

"Isabel Noble, you've made it!" he declared with a grin. "I must admit, I was quite anxious about your arrival."

"Because I frighten you?" Isabel teased, the words flowing as smooth as the champagne James was serving.

"Because you're quite a flighty thing." He held out a champagne flute to her. "Come, I'm about to make a toast."

Isabel neared the table, making eye contact with every single guest. She knew the faces well: Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, John Wayne Gacy, Aileen Wuornos, and a figure who didn't have a face and was instead covered head to toe; the Zodiac Killer.

"Ted Bundy couldn't make it?"

Her joke earned her a loud cackle from Aileen. "This girl's a fucking riot; she's gonna sit next to me."

"Everyone is going to sit where their place card is," James said as Miss Evers appeared with a trolley of clean glasses and a large bottle of eerie green liquid. "Now quiet down."

Miss Evers poured the green drink into each of the glasses and passed them around. When she reached Isabel, she raised her eyebrows. "You have to," she whispered, handing Isabel the glass of absinthe.

Isabel understood what Miss Evers meant perfectly: she wouldn't have a choice, and would need to drink. Her heart thudded with fear. Absinthe was illegal in the United States for a reason, and she was terrified of the effects.

"To another year! A reunion of old friends, and new ones." He looked to Isabel and winked.

Was he expecting her to smile at him? She couldn't. How could she smile knowing full well why she was there? As she brought the glass to her lips, the door opened and the last of the guests appeared.

"John! You're well past fashionably late, you know," James said, holding out the last glass of absinthe for the man Isabel never wanted to see again. "You missed my toast."

"Always next year," John Lowe, the infamous Ten Commandments Killer, said, and then downed the absinthe.

As he set the glass down on the table, he met eyes with Isabel, and Isabel wanted to vomit. Here was one the reasons she was invited to Devil's Night.

Was she supposed to talk to him? What would she even say? Perhaps she ought to apologize, though she wasn't sure how to go about apologizing to someone she murdered.

John Lowe sat beside her, his eyes never leaving her. It was difficult to tell if he was staring out of shock or anger, and Isabel decided she'd rather not know. Unsure of what to do, Isabel downed the absinthe as quickly as John had.

The black licorice taste didn't quell her urge to vomit, and she put a hand to her mouth as if to keep everything inside of her. She waited, and nothing happened. Perhaps it wasn't real absinthe?

Isabel blinked and suddenly she was standing in the corner of the room, watching Jeffery Dahmer drill a hole into a stranger's head. She wanted to feel horrified, but the emotions couldn't quite reach the front of her mind. They stayed quite in the back of her head.

She didn't know how much time had passed, and she found herself not caring.

"You don't deserve to be here."

Isabel's head lolled to the side and she saw John Lowe standing next to her. "Yet here I am," she slurred. It seemed absinthe didn't have as much effect on the dead. Though she was pretty far gone, Isabel could see that she was the only one out of it.

"You kill one person and suddenly you're a big shot."

"Two," Isabel corrected, holding up her fingers in a peace sign. "Two people… and technically you killed yourself."

"You made me kill myself," John snapped.

Isabel shrugged. "I dunno what to tell you… honestly I didn't think it would work. I was never too good at Concel… council… Concilium. Total shot in the dark. Ha, shot. Get it? 'Cause you―"

"Shot myself, yeah I get it."

There was a long pause, and Isabel swayed to the music trying (and failing) to hum along. She then looked to John and asked, "Are you going to kill me?"

Maybe it was the absinthe making her see things, but she could have sworn he smirked. "Kill you? So that you're stuck forever in this hotel? I'd rather not spend the rest of eternity with my killer."

Isabel laughed heartily as if that was the funniest joke she had ever heard, and John began chuckling along with her.

"Good to see the two of you getting along!" James said cheerily as he approached the pair. "I must admit, I was quite worried when making the guest list. I hoped that your similarities would outweigh your differences." He placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Would you excuse us for just a moment, old chum?"

John bowed his head and stepped away, leaving Isabel and James alone.

"Your wife hates me," Isabel stated.

"Hate is rather a strong word, dear. She… harbors a distaste for you."

"I killed her, she should hate me."

"Ah, but she nearly killed you," James reminded Isabel, his fingertips ghosting the scar on Isabel's neck.

She had received the injury when she and the Countess had gotten into a deadly altercation. Isabel tried reasoning with herself all the time that she didn't have a choice. It was a fight to death; what else could she have done?

She could have stopped it. She was a witch for fuck's sake. She should have stopped it. Instead, the gun had gone off and Isabel didn't even try saving her.

"Why did you invite me? I don't belong here. These people… they've killed way more than I have. They're murderers. They're proud."

"And you don't belong with them because of the shame… and you've only killed two people, the world not knowing about either of their deaths." He was stating a fact. James knew that Isabel didn't truly belong with this group. She didn't kill for fun; she didn't appreciate the art of murder. "But you do belong here. Here, in this hotel. You must know it as much as I do."

No, she didn't belong here. This hotel was not a home. Isabel had many homes, but the Hotel Cortez was just a moment in her life. A big moment, but it wasn't a place for her to return to. This wasn't the Murder House or Miss Robichaux's. She belonged to those places, but the Hotel Cortez was just that: a hotel, not a home.

Still dazed, Isabel watched Jeffery Dahmer stroking the hair of his victim, who was now long gone.

"What time is it?" Isabel asked, realizing that she could have been out of it for quite a while. "What time is it?" she asked again, the panic in her voice beginning to rise.

James would not answer her. He was gone; completely missing from the room. Isabel blinked and the room was dark and she was alone. She shut her eyes again and opened them, and the party returned. What the fuck was happening? Was it the absinthe?

"Isabel," Sally said firmly.

Sally was standing right in front of her, but Isabel couldn't tell if she was real or not. She shut her eyes so tightly that it hurt, and when she opened them once more, the party was gone but Sally remained.

"How was the party?" Sally asked, head tilted to the side.

"Dunno… I was out for most of it," Isabel admitted. She felt Sally's hand against her cheek, and leaned into her touch. "I don't think it was fun… I didn't belong there."

"You wouldn't have been invited if you didn't."

Isabel wanted to deny it, but she found herself exhausted. It had been a trying night. Facing demons was never easy, especially when it took on a literal form.

"I need to go," Isabel murmured, her head foggy from the absinthe and her sudden exhaustion.

Sally's face fell, and she stepped away from Isabel. "Again." Of course she needed to leave again. No one ever stayed.

Slowly, Isabel nodded. If she didn't leave soon, the police would come and that would be a mess.

"I'm sorry," Isabel murmured. Was she though? Was she truly sorry for leaving again? She couldn't tell what she was feeling. "I need to leave now… I'll uh, maybe I'll see you next year."

"You're lucky I'm not sewing you into a mattress," Sally muttered as she lit up cigarette.

"I know."

Isabel walked around Sally, and left Room 78 to go call a cab at the front desk.

She hadn't known what to expect at Devil's Night, and she supposed it could have been worse. She was coming out alive, and was going home, knowing that this time the hotel would release her without any problems.

Maybe Moira would have a nice cup of tea waiting for her.


End file.
